


Shades of a Steel Grey Morning

by The_Magical_Crawdad



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Magical_Crawdad/pseuds/The_Magical_Crawdad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When wierd time shit and wierd puzzle shit meet each other halfway, the world splits. Another, very much the same but wildly different fills in the spaces. Polar opposites meet, and when they come apart again they are no longer as clear cut as they used to be. Everything becomes painted in shades of a steel grey morning and nothing is the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been a terrible few days, really. Wierd puzzle shit out of fucking nowhere and then you had to deal with Slick who was much more worked up than you’ve ever remembered him being. Something about a heist at the Felt Mansion going wrong. Wierd time shit to go with the puzzle shit you’ve had to deal with.

You groan, holding your key tightly. Another job to do, another problem to sleuth. You push open the warehouse door slowly, mindful of the noise. Apparently someone had been snooping around, someone in a black suit and black hat. You had assumed the Crew, but when you rang Slick he’d simply snarled at you.

“Why the fuck would we have any business there?” He had asked, and you couldn’t answer. So you decided to check it out, because anyone muscling in on the Crew’s territory was sure to end up in the river. You weren’t sure you wanted that.

It doesn’t take you long to find him, you just follow the sounds of whimpers and bones cracking. Blood is the first thing you see, then the suit. He looks so much like Slick it’s not fucking funny. You grit your teeth.

“Slick?” You call out, training your gun on the figure who looks up in surprise.

“Is that you, scout?”

Well fuck. You don't know who this guy is, but the way he's holding that knife makes you blood run to ice. You keep your gun on him, slowly taking a step forward.  
"Ah ah, no need to do that." He flicks the knife at you, and it thuds to a stop a foot away from you, shuddering in the floor of the warehouse. He smiles, too wide and too black to be a real smile. It's the kind of smile you see on a shark right before it attacks. You pause, but don't let your gun stray away. This guy smells of trouble, and you're not the best sleuth in the city for nothing.  
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Not your best line, but you need information. His grin grows wider and _how the hell is he doing that_. He steps forward and spreads his arms, as if standing in a spotlight on stage.

"Peccant Scofflaw at your service. And what's _your_ name, hmm?" He raises a brow and leans forward, interest etched onto his face. You wait, and he frowns after a few seconds. Obviously not someone used to waiting. You can use that. Before he opens his mouth to speak again you get in.

"Problem Sleuth. And I asked you what you were doing." His smile is back, wide and cruel. You shift slightly, lean a little to your right. Can't let your guard down, not when he's got another knife in his hands. Looks like he knows how to use them. Moves like Slick. You frown.

"Right, right. See, I was just minding my own business, doing my job, and this little piker comes up to me and starts mouthing off. Apparently I don't belong here?" He grins, too wide, waving the thin knife in his hands at the streak of red on the floor. "So I showed the bloke that I do belong here. I think he saw the point." He laughs, and it is a horrifying sound, as black as pitch. You don't, just stand there like a deer in the lights of an oncoming truck.

"I was hoping you'd be someone else, but I guess I'm just shit out of luck. I suppose you can't have every-" You cut him off, not literally because bullets don't really cut. You only get one shot off, get him in the shoulder, then fiery agony blooms in _your_ shoulder. You stagger back and reach up to feel cold steel. He'd fucking pinned you with his knife even as you shot him. Holy shit.

"I can see you're no pushover, but I really should be going." He doesn't seem to care about his new bullet wound, just steps back and away from you as you struggle to remove the knife from your shoulder. You look up just in time to see him snap his fingers and disappear in a blaze of purple-black fire, and you recoil in horror. The needle falls from your hand when you manage to work it out, and you just stand there dumbfounded for a few minutes, staring at the scorchmark on the floor.

You manage to get back to your office without passing out, mind racing a mile a minute. You've got to make calls, check in with your team and check on Slick. You have a very, very bad feeling about all of this. You're ringing Inspector when it hits you. How could you have not seen it? He was standing right in front of you, he was right fucking there, and you see that face every morning.

How could you have forgotten he looked _exactly like you_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a mashup of Mobsterswitch, the Intermission and Problem Sleuth. This is also my first time posting to AO3 so please excuse any failures in formatting and stuff like that. It's all every new and shiny and cool! If all goes according to plan this will be the largest thing I've ever written to date, which is exciting! Notes will probably accompany every chapter, explanations of headcanon or ideas present in the story that weren't really detailed to any great extent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Deuce Turns Out Smarter Than He Appears And Diamonds Droog Very Carefully Does Not Go Off The Deep End.

"For fucks sake, Sleuth, I don't give a shit." You grumble into the phone, downing the last of your glass of scotch as he rambles on about him in a black suit. Sounds like your kind of thing, though you sit up and pay attention when he starts talking about purple fire. You growl and hang up on him midway through listening to something about a sharks smile, and slouch out of your apartment. You pause just long enough to jam your hat on your head. Your trip is short and uneventful. You know these streets like one of your knives, so it only takes you five minutes to pull in.

You stalk into the club like an angry whirlwind and only stop long enough to snatch two bottles from the bar. "Everyone out." You order, and the red-haired kid that's on tonight gives a sharp nod. You remind yourself to give the shit a raise for not asking questions as you head into the back rooms, tearing the top off one of the bottles with your teeth as you go. You kick the door closed, cutting off the sounds of your barman forcibly removing an obviously drunk patron. You grin. Definately getting a raise.

"We have a problem." You announce to the room, slouching into a seat. You catch Droog's eye, and thrust the unopened bottle at him. He takes it with a faint look of distaste as you take a swig of your own. You bare your teeth at him, which fails to elict a response. It never does, but it makes you feel better. Deuce climbs into a chair as Boxcars places glasses on the table. You don't bother with one, but you do wait until Droog has poured out three equal measures. There are some things you just don't inturrupt.

"About the new eyes in town or the new mob?" Droog's voice is smooth, tightly controlled, which means he's agitated. You narrow your eye, because you hadn't put much thought into the first and had outright dismissed the second. So they were real problems, then. Droog drains his glass in one long swallow and sets it back on the table with a clink. He gives you a flat glare, but you know him well enough to see the coils of red anger.

"My friend said the new guys like Sleuth look like us!" Deuce bounces in his seat, excited. You and Droog share the same incredulous look as you turn to him. He smiles widely, like only he can, and waves a slip of paper at Boxcars. You hear Droog's long suffering sigh with only half an ear as you lean forward, patting Deuce on the head. Good mobster, mostly friend. Boxcars squints at the messy handwriting, then wads the paper up and tosses it. He looks thoughtful for a moment, but before you can get too worked up he nods.

"Offices across town. Corner a' Twenty first n' Ironclad." Droog narrows his eyes and Deuce looks happy. Twenty first and I, which means a good set of offices which means a good company of detectives. You grin. Tonight is definately shaping up.

It doesn't take you long to pull up outside your destination. Droog drives, and everyone in the city knows to fucking bail at the sight of the midnight cruiser. Deuce plays Go Fish with Boxcars, which leaves you to stew in your own mounting irritation and black anticipation. The street is deserted by the time you're unloading. Deuce manages to keep his mouth shut the entire time, though the element of surprise is pretty much lost when you kick in the door.

"We got a bone to pick with y-" You're cut off by a soft click and the feeling of cold metal at your temple. You go still, knife in hand but making no sudden movements.  
"I am certain you do. But we're rather bus-" Why the fuck is Droog answering you and why the hell was there a second soft click. You chance a look back, and even you've got no witty one-liner for this situation.

Droog holds a gun to Droog's head, who is holding a gun to yours. Boxcars looms in the doorway with Deuce peeking around his legs. You have no idea when Deuce got his hands on a gun but he's got one, and the look of intense concentration of the little guys face might have been hilarious at some point but it's not now.

"Put the gun down." Your Droog says calmly, and the other Droog slowly eases his hand and gun away from your head. He's even got that blank look, and if he's anything like the Diamond he's already worked out a way to kill you and Droog before legging it. You'd rather that not happen.

"Take a seat." You indicate what is obviously his office chair with the point of your knife, And he leaves his key at the edge of the desk closest to you as he does so. He leans back, and the similarities club you over the head as he lights a cigarette.

"You are obviously not Scout, Brawler or Demoman, though I fall short trying to explain the second me." Goddamn he even _sounds_ the same as Droog, that tightly controlled blackness that speaks of the fury he's holding back. You dump yourself in the seat opposite him and swing your feet up to rest them on his table. His left eye twitches faintly, just like the Droog you know. Your smirk widens.

"So listen. This is _my_ town. You'll keep your nose out of my business if you know what's good for you." You definately do not startle when Droog lays a hand on your shoulder.  
"You should wait outside, Slick." You don't have to see his face to know he's got that heav throughful look on, like he's trying to decide if he can slit his doppleganger's throat without getting blood on his suit. You slide out from under his hand and leave without a word. As soon as you get outside Deuce gives Boxcars a wide-eyed look and leans in to whisper to him.

"Hearts do you think we should leave Droog in there I mean he looked pretty angry!" Even when worried and whispering he still somehow manages to be enthusiastic about goddamn everything. You grumble and lean on the stair railing, completely tuning out Boxcars' answer. You have a tendancy to do that a lot.

You have to wait ten minutes for Droog to open the door again, remarkably clean of blood. He pauses in the doorway to light a cigarette, but he does so without the silver lighter he keeps for that exact reason. Purple lights between his fingers and the cherry on his cigarette burns violet for a second before it goes orange. He only does that when he's really furious, when he's reaching the end of his admittedly very long fuse.

"Dead-Eye Detective has been tremendously helpful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAH WHAT IS QUALITY CONTROL? I had to get this up tonight or I never would have. No goddamn clue if this chapter is actually going to end right there or not it probably will. Proofread on the fly and then chunk'd up for everyone everrrr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where partners get the same idea but go about it in different fashions.

You hate mornings. Too many people out, mainly, though you've always had an instinctive dislike of dawn. Probably because the dawn throws your flaws into sharp relief, and you can just imagine people looking at you and seeing them. So yeah, you hate mornings. But you've been unsuccessful in your recent snooping, so you've had to pull all the stops. Pulled an all-nighter, too, which only leaves you weary and irritable. Heaven help any idiot that stumbles across your path, you think. You haul yourself in through the window you've been fighting for the last five minutes and hit the floor with a quiet thud.

You've never really noticed how comfortable floors are. You lay there for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of _not standing up_ until your instincts kick into overdrive. You're here for a reason. You clamber up the nearby chair and wait until the heavy ache in your legs goes away, then start rifling through the messy pile of folders on the desk. God, has this guy ever heard of filing? You search in vain for a few minutes, then step back and give the Pile the darkest glare you can muster. This Pile _does_ look very much like your own, and you wonder if you could ... just ...

There are, of course, three important rules to The Pile. The first is that the most important files and clues are put on top of The Pile. The second rule is that The Pile is to stay that way until you no longer need those files, or that case is done. The third and oft-forgotten rule of The Pile is that _no man shall invade another mans Pile without express permission_. You manage to forget Rule One _and_ Rule Three at the same time. The stack of files does make an impressive flutter as it topples over, but that is overshadowed by the soft click of the door being unlocked. You pause, probably useless file still clutched in your hand. You pull a knife, ready to leap forward with the point leading the way, but freeze when Scofflaw pushes the door open.

There's a heavy, tense moment as he stares at you. He hasn't slept, you note idly, catching the black rings under his eyes. His hair isn't black, actually, and neither are his clothes. When did Scofflaw start wearing white? He just stares at you, stares and stares, then his shoulders slump in defeat. You have no idea what he's thinking, but you'd bet big on it being the same thought process as your own. Crossing things off a mental list, checking one by one. You're not sure what you should be doing - this man obviously isn't Scofflaw, despite the un-fucking-canny similarities.

"We're going to go for coffee." He informs you, then turns and marches out his door. You follow, slowly, still waiting for the other shoe to drop and Scofflaw to appear out of thin air. Probably laughing at you, too. You pointedly do not think about Scofflaw, because the all consuming urge to beat someone senseless (or possibly drink yourself into a stupor, you're not sure which) is becoming harder to ignore. You watch with hardly any interest at all when he hammers at the next door down the hall, wearing a look you remember seeing on Detective's face many times. _Long suffering_ , you think as you push away a pang of guilt.

The door cracks an inch, and you have to lean forward to catch a look. Your heart almost stops, because you're _so sure_ that's Innovator. His voice is subtly different, though, though you keep your knife on hand just in case. Nothing happens, and you eye the door warily as you pass it. You follow the man who's not Scofflaw out onto the street.

 **=== > Moments in the past, but not many,**

"Gimme one good reason I shouldn't leave you face down in a ditch." His voice is like midnight, slick oil that leaks in through your ear and drips onto your thoughts. You don't bother restraining the jaw-aching smile, just stare forward. You lift your chin slightly when you feel the rapidly warming edge of a knife pressed just under your voicebox, and you feel the press of cold iron (his fingers, you realize) as he strips the gun from under your coat, neat as you please.

"I'd have to say my stunning personality, slick." He freezes behind you, and you think you've found something to pry into, but his voice is full of his smug smirk when he replies.  
"Yeah, you've got real _rapier_ wit." You hear a muffled groan, but you can't look around as you're marched outside. It sounded close, at least, sort of like Dead-Eye but somehow different. So that's two bodies besides you, and the street is looking _real_ friendly right now. You go, and keep a lid on your laughter. Seems like Scout's stepping up to the plate, and it's about damn time too.

The way he moves is new, though, the knife is not one you usually see him with. Things are starting to get pretty odd, and things don't quite click until you catch sight of the second guy properly. Black suit, black hat, black eyes. Like someone from the Scoundrels, really, but the way he's holding that cuestick is far too much like Dead-Eye for your tastes. He gives you the flattest, coldest look you've ever had, and it gives you the unpleasant sort of chill you get when Innovator looks at you when he's furious. You give him your most charming smile, and you certainly don't wince when the glare gets colder, more focused. He's staring at your throat, you realize, and you twist away from that gaze to catch a look at the guy with his knife to your neck.

Oh boy. He lets you step away from him, and you don't bother disguising the apreciative look you give him. Shabby black suit, worn but well cared for black hat. It's like he's built out of shadows, not a lick of white _anywhere_ on him. You catch the reflection of purple flames in the edge of the knife he holds, catch the purple gleam in his slasher smile.

Tonight's gonna be _fun_.

 ****=== > Some time in the future, but not much,** **

"We're going to talk." He tells you as he slumps into his seat at the tiny diner across the street from his office. You follow suit and fold yourself into one of the tiny goddamn seats across from him, and you try to ignore the eyesore that is the lime green and vomit yellow table between you.

That's a great idea, you think, but first you're both going to need some coffee.

 **=== > At precisely the same time, but elsewhere,**

You're sitting in the car across from a short man built of purple shadows and boiling rage too big from his body, and you don't even care the man driving is ready to put a bullet between your eyes if you so much as twitch. His voice is still like an oil-slick when he speaks, but there's an edge to it, like oil about to ignite.

"We're going to have a little chat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fuck this one kicked me in the gut for some time. I apologise for how long it's taken me to get this chapter out! I had planned to finish it sooner but unfortuantly life got in the way and I've only just managed to finish.


End file.
